


Lattes

by BlueKiwi



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the flaming piano debacle, Santana finds herself at a crossroads. It's not like Blaine Anderson knows the way. [one-shot]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lattes

She isn’t sure when or why they became friends.  
  
Once upon a time, she was surrounded by the doll-like cheerleaders, with their bouncing curls and glossy smiles and lies smothered in giggles. Once upon a time, she may have begrudgingly joined the stupid members of the club, a bored expression on her face as she glanced over at her former throne of red and white. Once upon a time (and here is the part of the faerie tale that she doesn’t want to admit is true), she was content and happy and there was so much music that she wasn’t even sure the world could contain it.  
  
And it’s all a ridiculous dream and faerie tales like that aren’t meant to last.  
  
So she usually sits by herself, absently poking at her lunch. The air doesn’t smell of burning wood or cigarettes and everyone is passing by her, ignoring her. People, she thinks, are scared of her or hate her or think she’s some sort of alien troll doll that needs to be exorcised. But she doesn’t care. She hates them too, even the ones she was supposed to like (how quickly things change). She wants to pretend that she doesn’t notice but too often her tongue slips, and she is sneering at a couple of freshman or glaring spitefully at the cluster of gossiping cheerleaders a few tables away.  
  
Then one day, like a prince in all of his Project Runway glory, Blaine Anderson sits down across from her.  
  
The first time when he comes, she can’t help but snidely comment, “You look like Hugh Grant mauled Alphonse Ribeiro.”   
  
He surprises her that first time and laughs, “Then I’ve succeeded in my celebrity mash-up of the day,” and she gets the feeling that she is going to really hate that carefree chuckle if he actually plans on staying at the school with his One True Love. Her lip curls up in a sneer - what a lame reason to go anywhere. She stabs at her spaghetti with more force than is probably necessary - she knows Brittany wouldn’t do that. Sweet, funny, stupid, honest, gullible Brittany. Not a faerie tale - nothing is a faerie tale.  
  
She looks up and finds a cup sitting across from her. She looks from it to him, frowning. “Trying to poison me for killing your flaming Liberace pianos?”  
  
“Tall skinny vanilla cafe au lait, extra shot.” He shrugs, eyes never leaving hers and she doesn’t want to admit that it’s like a dare or that she feels slightly uncomfortable when  _he_  does it. She opens her mouth to retaliate, but, in a common move that she will eventually get used to, he beats her to the punch, “I guessed.”  
  
It is a good guess - very good, in fact - but Santana is not one to say that aloud. Instead, she flicks at the cup with her finger as if she is annoyance by its very presence and perhaps if she ignores the new attraction in the Glee club, he’ll just go away and take his faerie coffee with him. She doesn’t even snap at him though more barbs are willing to slip from her mouth, to cut and jab and demean and wouldn’t that be a sight to see - poor little China vase’s boy toy at the stinging end of one of her insults. Her expression darkens - they’d just crowd around with offended expressions and scoffs and their stupid mighty beliefs that the power of friendship could solve anything.  
  
“Why’d you do it?”  
  
“My own reasons, Dalton. Besides, I’m sure you can find more ugly pianos in the Shire where those came from.”  
  
“Maybe.” A pause. “Do you miss it?”  
  
She pretends not to understand - maybe he’ll go away. “Miss what?”  
  
“The group.”  
  
She can’t tell him - she won’t tell him. What is this, some sort of intervention? Does he feel sorry for the poor wayward cheerleader, think that no one can possible be happy or content without their silly little group and their ridiculous songs? She goes back to stabbing the food, as if she was trying to put all of their inane faces in place.   
  
And this how it goes for a month. He sits and brings her coffee; she broods and pretends she doesn’t like it. She’s sure that the others want to know why, can sense the diva and the pasty-faced boyfriend and the freakishly tall quarterback whispering behind her back every time he sits with her. Santana could roll with their punches, knew how to throw them back even worse, but she remains sullenly quiet as they titter and roll their eyes and pretend that the world is just one giant goddamn stage that they’re all stars of.  
  
But she doesn’t refuse his company either.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
It’s late fall now, and gold-tinged leaves litter the ground where students used to pretend that they ruled the world and impromptu music numbers were met with contempt and confusion. She’s pretending to drink her latte - somehow, he managed to guess her favorite mix in the fall and it wasn’t as if she was going to refuse a free drink - and he is reading some pretentious by Frank O’Hara (not that Santana will ever admit knowing who he is).  
  
She scowls over the white rim of the cup, tasting caramel and autumn on her tongue. “Don’t play games. You know what I mean.”  
  
He looks thoughtful, shrugs, and then flips a page. “I don’t know. I could make up an interesting reason, if you want.”  
  
“Why don’t you  _care_?”  
  
“Why do you?”  
  
And she doesn’t want to get into  _this_  conversation with him, and that’s that.  
  
But sometime later, when the theatre is empty and Rachel isn’t attempting to have all of the lights shine on her and Schue isn’t doing a ridiculous practice that no one cares about, they sit there and look out into the auditorium. He was already there - when she joins him, he only smiles and for once, when she rolls her eyes, it isn’t condescending. It’s affectionate and only maybe because she has found someone more stubborn than she.  
  
“Give up?”  
  
She snorts. “Not likely.”  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“Brittany.”  
  
He nods - he knows these stories already and doesn’t tell, not even Kurt. He holds out a cup to her, motions for her to join him on the edge of the stage, the edge of their world.  
  
“Latte?”  
  
She gives him a look that may have once been scathing, but she’s already dumping her books behind him and slipping next to him and letting her legs dangle off the edge. She likes it when it’s quiet in here - no gimmicks, no bullshit.   
  
“She thinks you’re some sort of magical faerie, you know. Need more pixie dust, though.”  
  
He laughs and she’s not annoyed. “I think you’d pull it off better.”  
  
And so it goes.  
  
Finally, when she does come back, with her arms crossed and murmuring apologies that she tries to make sound as bored as possible, he’s grinning at her. The others give her sour looks - oh, has she messed up their perfect little playtime again? - but he winks at her. She doesn’t smile back - no, she still has a reputation to keep and no amount of pretty words can make that crumble anytime soon - but she does give him a nod, and Brittany is already eagerly waving her over and saying how the club was so boring without her, like a bus full of Jewish nuns.  
  
And when Blaine comes to their usual spot at lunch, Santana is already waiting for him.  
  
“Latte?”


End file.
